I am a Honda Civic, all-wheel drive.
The oldest of our kind.
My successors had long preceded me, their predecessor
but I'm still young, still good to go.
Just fill me up with your wondrous ideas.
Mileage worn me, I hate to admit this.
Rust corrode my metal bumper.
And,
instead of tires
I have bricks on my wheel studs.
Without those tires, I can't move on.
I have no purpose, no goal whatsoever.
Just stuck inside this garage called hope.
Hearing only, no. Feeling too
the whispers of the trees outside.
If there is one,
or maybe I'm imagining things.
A period of seventy years have passed - Seventy long, lonely years.
Or at least that's what I think,
more or less.
My owner decided to dump me on a junkshop,
his wife believes that I just waste space in their home.
So there I was, brought by my owner
into this place.
Morgue for machines like us.
I kind of miss my tires,
although I do not know where they are.
But I was glad for being brought here,
you see on my way here
I rode on the back of a tow truck. How lucky am I.
For in my last moments, I felt that motion again.
And for that, it was like I was with my tires again.
Like my owner was driving,
to a destination.
I could almost cry, I can't though.
I am just a machine after all.
There I was, in front of the crusher.
In my last moments,
I was happy.
Even if I wasn't able to be with my wheels.
At last, I was not depress.
I died happily.
Those years of pain and suffering was almost worth it.
But all of it means nothing when you're in front of the crusher.
All that pain vanished, in an instant.
I wonder how my tires are doing?
Hope they're attached on a supercar.
Now that I am gone,
Am I still a Honda Civic?
Now that I am free.